


the sun may be calling, the night left behind

by thescyfychannel



Series: as call the deeps [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancient History, M/M, Pre-Series, before the seadwellers started encroaching on the shoreline, this is set way back when
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 05:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12698031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: there is nothing new under the sun: under the moon, under the stars, under the deeps of the sea, the same circle begins once more.





	the sun may be calling, the night left behind

The moment you saw him, you knew this was going to be a story. Stories were…one of your specialties, actually, and you enjoyed reading them, comparing them…keeping them accurate and up-to-date, the pasts of your people, it was almost your _calling_.

 

But then your people had called you to war. But then you had see him.

 

He was golden, sunfire and lightstorms, a skysplitter like no other. Serendipity, all tied into sparks that sung your heart back into being. You nearly melted right then and there.

  
  


But that wasn’t always you. You weren’t always a story.

Saoidh Ampora. They’d named you for the deeps of the ocean, when they’d seen how far you could go, even as a grub. You had wanted to know everything, they told you, and so they had told you everything they knew. From time to time, when your tribe passed another tribe in a peaceable way, _that_  tribe would tell you their stories in turn, and you would record them, as best you knew how.

 

Saoidh Ampora. You belonged to the deeps. But you _loved_ the surface, loved the waves as they rolled over and under you, and your tribe— _all_ the tribes—indulged you in it. After all, you were their Archiver, their record keeper, their historian. So they brought you to the surface, and taught you the things of the islands. How to make the cloth of bark that was carefully treated to be waterproof. How to bake and dry the pots that were kept in careful locations by each tribe and clan. How to make the weapons that could cut through the water as cleanly as a seadweller’s fin. And you learned _everything_.

 

And then you began to write.

First in clay—and these tablets were traded amongst the trolls like treasure, though they had to go to the surface to read a single word they said. (Eventually, you began to infuse them with biolum chalks and inks, and they were coveted all the more.)

Then in paper—treated well over with the waterproofings your tribe was known for, with all the skills you had learned. (You wrote these twice over with one pen, dark-ink and biolum blending seamlessly as they flowed forth.)

Then in words—as you told your own stories to whatever trolls might ask. (You still liked the histories the best.)

 

The history was recorded, wherever you could leave it. Tablets and books went off with the tribes and clans, and you left caches of them wherever you could, on the islands you found—carved into wood made sturdy and strong, written on paper treated to weather the world, drawn onto tablets of clay you had hardfired yourself. Your mark. Your words. The lives and times of all that your people were and knew. This was your _calling_.

  
  


But then your people had called you to war.

 

But then he had called to your blood and bone and heart besides.

 

You had never liked the stories you made on your own. History was more your purview.

  
  


Maybe you’d known. Even back then, maybe you’d known.


End file.
